Don't Ask, Don't Tell
by Ruse2
Summary: [newsiesXzanna,don't!][slash]. if i pass you in the hall, and i turn my eyes away; if i have to say hello to you, and i don't say your name... that is how i'll kiss you...


Okay, so here it is: my take on some sort of crossover between 'Zanna, Don't!' (the lovely little show from which the title is taken) and 'Newsies,' even though it really doesn't resemble either musical at this point. This will contain some light swearing, and a slash paring or two- you have been warned. Oh, and I guess I should mention that this is dedicated to my dearest, darlingest Dee. Reviews are, as always, much appreciated.  
  
-=-=- Prologue: Overture -=-=-  
  
"Okay, light the burner so we can get this stupid lab over with."  
  
"Shit, why do we have to work with this stuff again? I smelled like mothballs all day after the last lab!"  
  
"That's because it more or less is powdered mothballs, genius."  
  
The voices belonged, respectively, to Mush Meyers and Jack Kelly, but Lefty McLean paid little attention to either of his lab partners as he pondered the fate of the stick figure cowboy scribbled on a corner of his hastily scrawled chem notes.  
  
Death by poison? Sharp, pointy objects? A headfirst plunge from a very, very high ledge? Or a cliff...  
  
Yes, that last option definitely deserved some further consideration. Then again, each and every one of them were appealing to the high school junior- after all, they all resulted in the same outcome and that, of course, was the only important part. Doesn't matter how it happens so long as it does eventually happen.  
  
He had been about to put some of the finishing touches on the sketch when the third member of their lab group nudged him sharply. Lefty turned to Blink with a distinctly annoyed frown, flipping his notebook shut as he did so.  
  
"What?"  
  
One blue eye flickered briefly to the battered black spiral-bound notebook but the blond-haired boy chose, strangely enough, not to make a big deal of it. Lefty'd half-expected him to swipe the notebook to show it to Jack, though he was certainly not ungrateful for Blink's apparent disinterest.  
  
"Light the burner," Blink ordered. "You're conductor this week."  
  
Which, in the world inhabited by Mrs. Ross' chemistry students, meant that he did all of the physical work while Jack took down data and observations most of the time and Blink customarily took them home to write up a lab report. Mush could sometimes be counted on to help with the clean-up and to conduct experiments when the results promised small explosions or violent reactions, but as far as mundane things like setting up warm water baths or lighting the dreaded Bunsen burner went, those seemed to be tasks reserved expressly for the conductor.  
  
Lefty eyed the burner with trepidation as he reached for the box of wooden matches he had been supplied with. The thing itself was a simple mechanism, a metal cylinder supported by a round base, fastened by way of a long tube to the gas line nozzle- simple but not necessarily the easiest piece of lab equipment to use. The flow of gas, for instance, had to be judiciously controlled so that the spurt of flame would neither sputter and die out nor overheat the contents of their test tube and cause it to shatter or crack.  
  
What Lefty hated the most, however, was that in the classroom's fluorescent lighting, the fire appeared colorless, making it nearly impossible to tell where the flame was. He came close to burning himself each time he lit the burner, and knew for a fact that this was something that Jack was well aware of.  
  
He gave the gas nozzle a cautious double-check before striking the match against the side of its box. After the initial sulfur-scented flare of light, he carefully brought it closer to where he could just barely make out the wavering spurt of gas that whooshed from the mouth of the burner, and thought he saw it ignite.  
  
So far so-  
  
Lefty let out a startled yelp and reflexively yanked his hand away from the flame, slamming it hard against the tabletop. The glass stirring rod slowly rolled over the edge and shattered on the floor as the discarded match sputtered and hissed in the lab sink, and he swore vehemently as he realized that a rinsed-out test tube that had been left out on a paper towel to dry had splintered beneath his hand, the glass shards ground into the palm.  
  
He bit his lip before any other choice words could escape, glaring fiercely at Jack as he cradled the injured appendage against his chest. The taller boy shamelessly removed his hand from the gas nozzle while across the room, small-statured Mrs. Ross finally snapped to attention.  
  
"Mr. McLean! What, might I ask, do you think you're doing?"  
  
Lefty had a feeling that the situation was about to get worse. The frizzy- haired chem teacher marched over, pushing the sleeves of her white lab coat up to her elbows. Lefty noticed with a growing sense of dread that her lesser height did nothing to dispel the notion that she was looking down her tip-tilted nose at him through silver wire-rimmed glasses.  
  
"I... uh... I think I burned myself," Lefty managed, resisting the urge to swear again. Jack and Blink fought back nearly identical smirks as Mrs. Ross simply sniffed.  
  
"Let me see."  
  
Lefty complied, trying not to wince as she scrutinized the proffered hand.  
  
"Because you were fooling around," she said, making the accusation a statement in an attempt to make it fact. Lefty glanced uncertainly at Jack, whose flat stare made the decision for him; he remained silent.  
  
Mrs. Ross fitted him with another look of disdain. She turned on the heel of a horribly out-of-date navy-blue pump, going to her desk. Lefty did as he was clearly expected to do, following in the annoyed wake of the chemistry teacher, and waited patiently while she rummaged in a desk drawer for a stack of hall passes and a double-sided pen. He wondered idly if the fact that she'd chosen to use the red side was meant to make some sort of statement. She scrawled the date and his destination- first the health office, and then the principal's- in the loopy cursive that most female teachers seemed to have. She paused with the tip of the pen on the edge of the line designated for his name, and Lefty sighed.  
  
"Ryan," he supplied.  
  
"I know," the teacher snapped, but Lefty knew that between her calling him 'Mister McLean' and everyone else calling him 'Lefty,' that there was a very good chance that she wasn't telling the truth. She added her own signature to the bottom of the pass, tore it from the pad, and made a point of catching his eye as she handed it to him.  
  
"If you fail to make it to the principal's office, I will be hearing about it," she warned. Lefty nodded, took the pass, and shouldered his backpack while he fought to ignore the sniggering laughter that seemed to be coming from Jack's corner of the room. He sighed.  
  
It was going to be a long day. 


End file.
